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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28778247">The Hours That Remain</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/fizzyCherryCola/pseuds/fizzyCherryCola'>fizzyCherryCola</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hetalia: Axis Powers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol, Angst, Bars and Pubs, Bonding, Brexit, Drama, Emotional Roller Coaster, Eventual Smut, Feelings, Flirting, Germany means well, Guilt, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Politics, Prussia is a free-loader, Rating May Change, Rough Kissing, Self-Doubt, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Social Anxiety, Spain is a good friend</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:54:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,906</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28778247</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/fizzyCherryCola/pseuds/fizzyCherryCola</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>On the eve of Brexit, England and France mistakenly run into each other. With the doom and gloom of the world resting on their shoulders, can they push past their differences and enjoy what little time they have left together?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>England/France (Hetalia)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>108</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Ticking Away the Moments</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A mild chill settles quietly on the city of Brussels. Its winter sky, painted with broad strokes of grey clouds, offers no sunlight this evening. Streetlamps flicker ghostly light across the old, stone sidewalks. Citizens bustle about; some are eager to get home and tune into the nightly news.</p><p>Today is 31 January 2020... and in exactly six hours, Brexit will be finalized. <br/>
 <br/>
England makes his way towards the Europa building, the main headquarters of the European Union. He checks a leather-banded watch on his wrist as his footsteps echo against the cold ground. It’s 6PM. By now, most of the office building will be empty and he won’t have the unfortunate luck of running into anyone he knows. All he has to do is get in, grab his remaining belongings, and leave. Simple and straight-forward.</p><p>The Brit pulls the green scarf around his neck a little tighter. It really isn’t that cold, but the action helps him feel more secure. As his destination comes into view, he sees that the Europa’s signature lantern is lit, bathing glass windows in a warm orange hue. “The beating heart of Europe” indeed. More and more, England’s feet start to feel like solid lead.</p><p>After what seems like an eternity, he reaches the main door and hesitantly pulls out his key card. Suddenly, a thought crosses his mind. Will his card even work? Until now, England hadn’t considered the possibility that it may not. Surely, Germany won’t revoke his access until midnight, right? If not, then at least this excursion will be mercifully short. With a small twinge of hope, he taps his card to the security lock. The imposing door opens with a sharp, electronic beep. Well, there goes his last excuse. <br/>
 <br/>
Making his way through familiar hallways and corridors, England eventually comes to several rows of glass doors. Each one is an office; the doors are embossed with the name of each respective European Union member on the front. He approaches his own little private room. The words “United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland” are partially scratched off of the glass door. It seems that the custodians have already begun the work to remodel his office. He enters and flicks on the overhead light, glancing around his beige, windowless room.</p><p>The wooden bookshelves are bare and the filing cabinets are empty. Thankfully, most of his rubbish is already back in London. There are only a few knick-knacks still left. Some loose files piled on his desk... A fake, plastic plant he got from Sweden... A photograph from the Y2K party that Spain hosted... A Pride pin that Netherlands gifted to England after he legalized same-sex marriage.</p><p>Quickly, England shoves all those memories down into the bottom of his heart and gets to work. Not even bothering to remove his coat, he hastily begins tossing his belongings into a worn cardboard box left behind by the custodians. <br/>
 <br/>
England imagines this is what being fired must feel like for the average bloke. Packing up everything they built over so many years and cast out into the unknown future without any sense of direction or purpose. Every accomplishment, every personal connection is just dumped into a bin and carried out the door. Really though, he shouldn’t complain. In the past, he’s suffered far worse. Getting booted out of the Union is nothing compared to some of the other events in his history. Life is filled with loss, after all. He just has to grit his teeth and get through it. So, this is fine. He’ll be fine. Just like he always is.</p><p>A headache begins forming somewhere around his left temple as England adds an Italian-English dictionary to his cardboard box. Each object he places inside it weighs more than the last. He can’t believe that he actually has to carry all this back to his hotel and somehow fit everything in his suitcase. And he has to do it without bumping into any other nations, lest he die of shame. However, the more he presses himself to just get it done, the more his head throbs. England takes a seat in the rolling chair beside his desk, allowing himself to stare up at the plaster ceiling and just exist for a brief moment.   <br/>
  <br/>
If he’s honest with himself - which is rare - he knows he could have done more to prevent this. That, right there, is the true reason why he shouldn’t complain. Sinking into his chair, the Brit runs through all the terrible decisions that led up to this point. England had countless opportunities to course correct before Brexit was locked-in, and he didn’t take any of them. Maybe if he told Germany that he was having second thoughts, none of this would’ve happened. Instead, he bit his tongue and let his daft politicians run amok as they attempted damage-control. How bloody stupid did he have to be?   <br/>
    <br/>
Minutes slip by as England mentally throttles himself for his own short-comings. The soft ticking of his mechanical watch is the only sound that fills the hollow office. Eventually, the quiet noise gently creeps into the edge of his mind, a constant reminder of what little time he has left as a member of the European Union. Sluggishly, he checks the little device. It’s 6:49PM. <br/>
 <br/>
“How the piss did that happen?” he mutters. He pushes himself up and continues to pack. With that needling headache still nagging at him, England tries his best to ignore it and keep working. When he finally finishes and the place is bare, he picks up his tattered cardboard box in both hands and hobbles towards the door. It opens with a push of his shoulder and he gives the space one final, regretful glance. Then he turns and takes off down the hall, attention dragging behind him.</p><p>At least it’s done now. All that’s left is to get back to his hotel room without any unexpected encounters. Then he’ll get room service to deliver him a stupidly expensive bottle of gin so he can drown out this bothersome headache.    <br/>
  <br/>
As he rounds a corner, a figure suddenly enters his line of sight, snapping England out of his thoughts. He halts, nearly stumbling right into the individual.  <br/>
 <br/>
“Ah! Pardon, je n'avais pas remarqué que vous étiez là,” says the familiar voice. “Je ne m'attendais pas à ça qu'il y ait quelqu'un ici...” The French speaker cuts himself off as England meets his gaze. Blond curls, blue eyes, and an immaculate wardrobe straight out of a Dior catalogue. Who else can it be, but the most irritating man in the world? “Oh,” France remarks. “It’s you.” <br/>
 <br/>
Bollocks. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* The chapter title references Pink Floyd's famous song, "Time".<br/>* Did you know? Winter temperatures in Brussels rarely go below 0°C / 32°F. Snow is uncommon, so their winter seasons are often rainy and cloudy.<br/>* Out of all the EU buildings, I chose the Europa Building based partly on it's aesthetic. It's quite an interesting design, look up some photos if you have the chance! A welcoming lantern meant to bring all of Europe together... and yet it's the EU building England must visit before he leaves. It's a little sad, don't you think?<br/>* My shaky command of the French language comes from (inadequate) high school classes and Google translate. Therefore, I want to thank the lovely person on Discord who proofread my garbled French sentences. This fic is dedicated to you, and every beta reader in existence.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A Chance Encounter</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first thing France notices is how England looks even more horrific than usual, a feat thought to be impossible. His shoulders hang low with exhaustion, dark bags curl underneath his grass green eyes, and his skin appears quite pale. And England’s outfit is... well.... The kind thing to say is ‘homely’.  </p><p>A light brown overcoat, a fraying green scarf, and worn black gloves over his hands. If England is going to degrade himself by wearing marked-down clothing, then France supposes it may as well be Burberry. England also seems to be carefully gripping some cardboard box while wearing an expression that is both piercing and accusatory.  </p><p>“What on Earth are<em> you</em> doing here, frog?” the scruffy man asks. How rude! Though, not uncharacteristic. France regards him for a moment and considers his own options.  </p><p>They haven’t seen each other in some time, so it follows that France should enjoy himself and make the most of this little encounter, right? However, England does appear to be in a very sour mood. He probably won’t tolerate much teasing before kicking France in particularly sensitive areas. <br/>
 <br/>
“Not that it is any of your business,” France drawls, “but I am here to gather some materials I accidentally left behind. Ah, by the way... You missed today’s EU meeting.” <br/>
 <br/>
“Thank you, I’m well aware,” England clips. Oh, he is definitely quite touchy today. <br/>
 <br/>
“You were also missing from the previous one,” France musically adds, “in November, and several others from last year. Not that I particularly care, of course, but I just thought I should mention.”  </p><p>England does not respond or rebuke the statement. He merely furrows his ever-expressive eyebrows. The reaction fills France’s heart with playful mirth. “You know, some of the other nations were asking after you,” he mentions. “I’m not exactly sure why they chose to ask me, but... Apparently, they thought you might turn up to bid them farewell on your last day.” England offers no comment and merely continues to glare. “Italy especially! ‘France, won’t England at least wish us good-bye? I made him some fresh linguini to show how much I value his friendship!’” France puts forth his worst impression of Feliciano in a last-ditch attempt to get England to play along. After all, banter is no fun without a receptive partner. <br/>
 <br/>
“Your lying needs a bit of work,” England scowls. Success! </p><p>“...You’re right, they didn’t care at all,” France admits with a smile. “I think perhaps most of them did not even notice your absence.” At that, England’s demeanour goes from mildly annoyed to offended. His shoulders tense up and his expression appears almost pained. Strange. It isn’t quite what France expects.  </p><p>Honestly, with England absent from so many of the European Union meetings, everyone simply assumed it was because he no longer cared. With Brexit looming, it was an easy explanation to believe. However, looking at him now, France realizes that there may be another reason.  </p><p>It is perhaps possible that England is too stressed from the impending separation to meet with the individuals he is to be separated from. Though, if that is the case then it should serve him right. Not only has the whole Brexit event thrown off England’s economy, but it is also causing incredible damage to the Union’s stability and reputation. For a moment, France considers telling him as much. It is absolutely something the selfish idiot deserves to hear. Then again, there’s a sizable chance that such comments will lead to an entire scuffle and France <em>just</em> purchased his lovely new coat from Chanel last week. He absolutely cannot risk ruining it! So instead, France decides to let the grouch off easy with some indifferent, casual conversation. “Never mind, though. Tell me! Are you feeling excited?” <br/>
 <br/>
England stares back, without any shred of enthusiasm. </p><p>“...What?” he asks. <br/>
 <br/>
“Well,” France elaborates, “you finally have the freedom that you so desperately wanted. I imagine that is something you would be a little bit happy about, no?”  </p><p>To his confusion, England immediately storms past him, knocking their elbows. He stamps off down the hallway without so much as an off-handed quip. Stunned at his reaction, France watches him go until his familiar rival turns a corner and vanishes from sight.  </p><p>What was that for? Why bother getting angry at such a little question? You’d think that France asked him why he looks like the missing link between Neanderthals and modern-day humans. Irritated, France brushes it off. If England is set on having a tantrum over nothing, then it is best to let him be.  </p><p>Refocusing on the reason for his visit, France turns and strides towards the nation offices. Coming to his own, France begins to open the door before something catches his attention. Just a bit further down the hall, he notices the bold lettering is partially scratched off of England’s room. But what’s more, is that he notices how bare the room looks through the thick glass. Mildly curious, he slips towards it for just a moment. He peers inside and sees how empty the little space now sits.  </p><p>Sturdy oak shelves without books, a wide desk without any papers strewn about, no pens, no photographs, no files... Not a trace remains of the man who once worked there. It looks rather melancholy, France thinks. </p><p>Obviously, the reason England decided to show up today was because he needed to gather up the last of his belongings before midnight, when his security access will be revoked. However, something does not make sense to France. Why did England wait until now? He could have visited at any time. Even if he wished to avoid running in to anyone, he surely could have visited on a day when there were no meetings taking place. What good does it do to hold off until the final evening?  </p><p>France recalls the image of England he just witnessed and ponders something he hadn’t before. Is England<em> not </em>looking forward to Brexit? But how can that be? England does want Brexit to happen, doesn’t he? </p><p>As he stands still before the vacant room, gears turning in his mind, France thinks carefully. Perhaps he is reading too much into it. Although, thinking back on it now, he realizes that he cannot recall England personally affirming that he wants to leave the European Union. Well, not in any serious capacity. The man complained a thousand times in the past several decades, but it was always frivolously hollow. When Brexit was first announced, everyone in Europe was genuinely surprised. Not one nation truly believed that England would choose to leave. Most of the commotion leading up to the referendum was only drummed-up by his politicians, his media outlets, a portion of his voter base, and... oh, come now.  </p><p>Taking in a deep breath, France draws out a long-suffering sigh. What is he doing, ruminating on this subject? Brexit is happening tonight, regardless of how anyone feels about it. It does him absolutely no good to conjure up excuses for that sorry man and think about the what-ifs.  </p><p>France drags a finger across the door, running it along the rough edges of its worn, fading font. On the other hand, this may be the last time he and England will see each other for quite a while. And if England continues with this avoidant pattern of behaviour, he may also skip out on a few G7 meetings. Realistically, it could be a year or more before they meet again. Is it really alright to simply leave things unsaid? No, with the state the world is in right now, it probably isn’t. But does France care enough about “the greater good” to chase after a stubborn, unfashionable, alcoholic fool and spend the entire evening trying to weasel the truth out of him? Ha! No, he certainly does not.  </p><p>But then, maybe he is just slightly interested in the truth. Albeit, purely for his own curiosity and self-satisfaction. </p><p>Hmm... What to do? As usual, France can swing either way. He can pursue his old rival for answers or let everything be. Perhaps, to help decide, he can look at this situation differently. Maybe he can consider how entertaining (or disastrous) the evening may end up being. Maybe a little gamble could be fun.  </p><p>Maybe the question he should be asking himself is: how generous does he feel like being tonight? </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* Burberry is actually a very fancy clothing brand. But it’s British, so obviously France wouldn’t like it.<br/>* In the previous chapter, England assumes France is wearing Dior, however he is wrong! It’s Chanel!<br/>* France is correct, Brexit has been a disaster. If you want to look up statistics, they’re available online. Let's just say things aren't very optimistic.<br/>* Explaining France’s thought process is very important to me for this chapter, since it sets the tone for the rest of the story.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Need vs. Want</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Stomping out into the winter chill, England seeks to put as much distance between himself and France as possible. He is not in any mood to be humiliated, taunted, or embarrassed tonight. That encounter was precisely why he wanted to avoid running into any familiar faces. The stress of merely entering that sad, little office was more than enough. Finally, to add insult to injury, he has France’s teasing comments swirling around in his head:</p><p><em>‘I think perhaps most of them did not even notice your absence.’ </em>  </p><p>A bitter pang hits his heart as England remembers those words. His hurried pace slows. </p><p>He shouldn’t be bothered by it. He shouldn’t expect anyone to miss him, he knows this. And yet, maybe a part of him is still clinging to the slim hope that someone will. That maybe there is someone who truly wanted him there, as part of the Union. Not that he needs anyone to miss him or care about him. Absolutely not. It’s just that... It’s just that it bothers him, for some reason. That’s all.  </p><p>England holds his cardboard box protectively, as though a mild breeze would toss its contents into the wind. It jostles a bit as he walks through the quiet night. The sky over Brussels is dark and the surrounding area is deserted. There’s no one to accompany England on his walk back, which is... Fine. The lonely, pale streetlamps offer enough company anyway. </p><p>“Brussels is gorgeous this time of year,” sings a loathsome, pompous, froufrou voice. “Don’t you think?” France prances up beside him, and England makes a point of not looking at the man. </p><p>“I’d prefer if you didn’t follow me,” England replies. Politely. Calmly. </p><p>“You misunderstand, Angleterre!” France exclaims. “I am not walking <em>with </em>you. We just happen to be travelling in the same direction.”  </p><p>England grumbles in agony. It’s a shame that the idiot isn’t quite within kicking distance. “My hotel is this way," France continues with nonchalance. “It is ‘La Résidence’.”  </p><p>A full-body wince snaps through England’s body. Oh, for Christ’s sake, of course they would be in the same bloody hotel. France giggles. “By the look on your face, I imagine you are staying there as well? But that is to be expected, no? Germany does prefer to place every nation into the same hotel for the sake of convenience.”  </p><p>A sickening feeling of dread settles into England’s stomach.  </p><p>As France reminded him earlier, an EU meeting took place today. For this, all members of the Union were called to Brussels to take part, including him. He foolishly accepted the complimentary room under these pretences. So, naturally, every single person England needs to avoid is currently sharing the same hotel as him. Fan-bloody-tastic.</p><p>He looks up to see France eyeing him carefully. His lips are pressed thin and his delicate brows are bent down ever so slightly, as though he is reading a book with small print. Something in the other man’s eyes is making England self-conscious and he feels a touch of heat rise in his cheeks.  </p><p>France’s peculiar expression disappears and is replaced with a cheeky smirk.  </p><p>What on Earth is he after? Is he just trying to playfully get under England’s skin or is he after something else? It’s difficult to say. France is very cat-like in that regard. Whatever France’s motives, though, England refuses to play along. He will not be acting as a form of entertainment for France tonight. He’s deciding that right now! So, no matter how much the peacock bastard prods, England resolves that he won’t respond to any of it.  </p><p>And as if on cue, said peacock bastard quickly swipes a loose photograph from England’s precious box. </p><p>“Oi!” England protests.</p><p>“Don’t be so secretive,” France says, smiling. He looks down at the little picture and lets out a joyful holler. “Ahh! Look at this! It is from the New Year’s party of 2000!”</p><p>Frozen stiff between red-faced embarrassment and shock, England stares at France as the man ogles the photo. “That is the scarf Finland made for me,” France says, pointing to his figure in the picture. “It frayed after one wash, but I didn’t mind. It was a little plain anyway – not enough colour for someone of my taste. And...<em> Mon Dieu,</em> Spain’s hair is terrible. Look, here! See for yourself.”</p><p>France pops the picture in front of England’s face, tapping it gently. “He tried to copy an American musician, but his hair was far too thick. He ended up looking like a poodle with a bouffant.”</p><p>Worn paper edges frame a happy group in holiday attire. Greece is barely awake, slouching as he waves at the camera. Germany stands stiffly as Belgium drunkenly hangs off of him. Denmark is in the back, pulling a silly face. The Italy brothers are munching on a bowl of snacks and Spain does, indeed, have ridiculous hair. There they all are, frozen in time.</p><p>“Give it here,” England mutters over the lump caught in his throat. He’s entirely too uncomfortable to be dragging up old memories today. He reaches for the photo, but it darts away from him.</p><p>“And you,” France continues. “You look the same as ever! Really, you should try smiling for group photos. When you don’t, it brings down the mood.”</p><p>Fed up and flustered, England manages to snatch the image out of France’s hands. He stuffs it back in his box and walks away. “I was only curious!” France calls after him.</p><p>England knows that France must be enjoying whatever sort of game he’s playing right now. Shifting the box’s weight in his arms, England reaffirms his resolve to not give in to the twat. All he has to do is get back to his hotel room and bolt the door. He can do this. “Why are you in such a hurry, anyway?” France asks, catching up quickly. He spins with an unnecessary flourish and starts walking backwards to face England. “Hmm... Could it be that you have an important date tonight?”</p><p>England doesn’t say anything to the idiot. England doesn’t react. At. All. “It is hard to imagine someone wanting to date you, but miracles do happen! Maybe it is someone I know?” This might be an impossible task. “Angleterre,” France wails in mock distress, “are you listening? You’ve said hardly a word to me! It’s breaking big brother’s heart!”</p><p>England wonders if he should dive off a bridge, or toss the frog off one instead.</p><p>A cool, sly expression crosses France’s face. “Ah, I see now. Maybe you are trying to avoid running into--” An audible ‘thwang’ rings out as France hits a streetlamp at full tilt. He stumbles like an ostrich on an ice-rink and flops over with a high-pitched squeak, grabbing the back of his head.</p><p>Startled out of his agitation, England watches the performance with bewilderment... Before absolutely roaring with laughter.</p><p>The sight of his posh, intrusive, elegant, narcissistic rival sprawled out in the street sends him rocketing over the moon. Like a lightning bolt from heaven, all England’s tightly-wound tension shatters and falls away to nothing. It’s the blessed relief he so desperately needs on a night like tonight. Thank God for France and his stupidity. England laughs and laughs until his lungs run out of air and he devolves into a coughing fit, hot tears pricking the edges of his eyes.</p><p>Schadenfreude is such sweet mercy.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* You should Google what a “bouffant” looks like. And then imagine a curly poodle with that haircut. And then imagine that poodle on Spain’s head.<br/>* England is just a big bag of insecurity, isn’t he? To me, he always seems like someone who wants companionship, but is too scared of being hurt to open his heart to another person. And I think, on some level, France understands this.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Crossroads</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Oh, how quickly a gorgeous winter evening can turn sour when one chooses the company of England.</p><p>Tears sting at the corners of France’s eyes as he rocks back and forth in agony. His hands are covering the throbbing spot where his precious head collided with an unforgiving lamppost. England is out of breath from cackling at his misery, the monster. He hunches beside France, knees buckled, red-faced and wheezing from what sort of hilarity, France cannot understand.</p><p>“Good God, I needed that,” England sighs, his breath coming out as a puff of smoke in the chilly air. He still looks tired, unkempt, and drab, but the animosity is gone from his body. His thick caterpillar brows are no longer trying to angrily crush his eye sockets. He now wears a satisfied smile, appearing relaxed, content, and almost happy.</p><p>This does not please France in the slightest.</p><p>“You’re not even going to ask if I’m alright?!” he protests.<br/>
<br/>
“No,” England chuckles, “but I’ll thank you for the laugh.”<br/>
 <br/>
“It really hurts, you know! Streetlamps are not made out of pillow cushions!”</p><p>“Oh, you’re fine.”<br/>
 <br/>
“You are the worst,” France dramatically sobs. “Even when I pour my gentle heart out to you, when I show you my kindness, when I try so hard to make you smile.... The only thing you smile at is my pain! You savage!”</p><p>“Get up or I’m leaving you here.”</p><p>“You ogre, you brute, you...” France trails off mid-sentence. His bleary eyes pop open. “Wait, could you repeat yourself? You <em>want</em> me to walk with you, now?”<br/>
 <br/>
“I- I didn’t say that. I just want to see you crash into another lamppost.”</p><p>“...Yes. Truly, the absolute worst,” France reaffirms, mostly to himself. His pride wounded, he rises with the last degree of grace he can muster and dusts his lovely new coat off. How awful! Despite his best efforts, he ended up with some dirt on him after all. Thankfully, it is not too bad. A little cold water should be enough to take care of any detestable pavement smudges. “Well, I am happy to say that I will not be walking backwards anymore this evening.”</p><p>“What a pity.” The foul creature known as England chuckles.</p><p>Their bickering continues for a short while before the pair settle into a familiar and comfortable silence. As they wander deeper into the city, their solitude decreases. Although darkness settles like a blanket over Brussels, now is when it comes to life. Awake, speaking, and thriving as any city does in the night hours.</p><p>Civilians wander through twisted streets, happily greeting old friends and lovers. Restaurants alight with warm laughter and cobblestones chatter with excited footsteps. France breathes in the cool air and catches the scent of stewing potatoes, vegetables, cream, and sausage. It is sometimes said that Belgian food is served in the quantity of German cuisine but with French quality. Though France himself may occasionally dispute that claim, he cannot deny the satisfying smells wafting through the wind. It is enough for him to forget the dulling ache in the back of his head. So distracted by his surroundings, France barely notices England checking his wristwatch more than once.</p><p>Clearly, the man has something on his mind. England rarely misses the chance to be at France’s throat whenever he feels stressed out. Earlier tonight, however, there was a nervous and vulnerable disposition colouring his character. It was as though England were trying to evade and ignore the entire world. Whether from guilt or shame, France isn’t sure, but based on England’s behaviour this evening, it’s obvious that he is carrying more than just the sad box in his arms. Perhaps the extra weight in England’s heart is a symptom of Brexit regret? France cannot deny how dearly he wishes to know for sure. Naturally though, he understands that now is not the time to disrupt the delicate atmosphere between them. Besides, not moments ago, France’s uncharacteristic clumsiness gave the self-imposed outcast a genuine smile. It may be best to leave the politics be for a moment and instead see where the night takes them.</p><p>“Are your cyclists ready for the Olympics this year?” England asks suddenly.</p><p>“Hm?” France says, mildly startled out of his thoughts. He hums. “Oh, that’s right. The Olympics are this year, aren’t they? Lately, I often find myself preoccupied with more taxing matters. The games will be a very welcome distraction, this year.”</p><p>“You didn’t answer my question.”</p><p>“C’est vrai! Naturally, my athletes are always perfectly magnificent. Why do you ask?”<br/>
 <br/>
“Because mine are eager to beat yours,” England naively bluffs. His expression is arrogant and brash: a grin curls across his cheeks and his emerald eyes spark with spirit.</p><p>Adorable. The scrappy island actually thinks he stands a chance. At this, France has to laugh.<br/>
 <br/>
“Your athletes,” he chuckles, “are not my competition.”<br/>
 <br/>
“What?!” England squawks with indignation. “Then whose?”</p><p>“Hmm, perhaps Germany’s?” France gleefully taunts. “Or maybe Japan’s, since he will be hosting. Then again, there is always America’s class of dauntless gorillas. Now that I think of it, maybe even Denmark is more threatening than you.”</p><p>England scoffs, “You take that last bit back.”<br/>
 <br/>
“Only the ‘last bit’?”</p><p>“Shut it. Who do you really see as competition?”</p><p>“Unfortunately, that would be China,” France sighs with lament.</p><p>“...Oh,” England mutters, face twisting into an uncomfortable frown. “Well, his athletes aren’t... Too much of a challenge.”</p><p>“Angleterre.” France offers England a withering look.</p><p>“Ah, Christ,” England admits. “Fine, yes, you’re right! The way things are now, it’s almost impossible to beat him in the number of gold medals. Him<em> and </em>America.”</p><p>“Yes, see! You understand,” France agrees. “Did you know China starts training his athletes when they are just little toddlers? How is that fair to the rest of us?”</p><p>“It isn’t fair at all! There ought to be some rule against it.”</p><p>“Obviously,” France bemoans, “they are going to be fantastic when they learn professional athletics before reading.” It is amazing, France thinks, how easily he and England can slip into agreement when gossiping about other nations. Where any other topic has them at odds, somehow in this, they always find common ground. Knowing that he has an ally somewhere in England’s gawky frame is both a little reassuring and cathartic. “And also, you know--”</p><p>Before they can continue, France’s phone lets out a familiar, audible ping. He pulls it out of his coat pocket.</p><p>“Really?” England says, unimpressed. “Checking your phone in the middle of a conversation?”</p><p>“Hmm.” France quickly skims over his notification.</p><p>“What is it?” England asks, in the casual way he does to hide his genuine interest.</p><p>“It is just a notification from a charity I am running,” France responds happily. He sets his phone to sleep mode before returning it to his pocket.</p><p>“What, you?” England says with mild disbelief. “You’re actually running a charity?”</p><p>“But, of course!” France proudly declares. “Don’t act so surprised. I have a kind and generous soul, you know! And before you suggest it, no, I am not doing this to steal the funding for myself.”</p><p>“Hmph. What’s it for, then?”</p><p>“It is for...” France hesitates. Then, he eyes England carefully.</p><p>This subject is somewhat delicate, and England is anything but that. Surely though, he is not so sadistic as to mock this sensitive topic. Then again, if he does, France can always choose to... how do you say? ‘Cancel’ him on Twitter? That may be fun. “It is for the victims of disasters related to climate change,” France relents. He allows his words to hang in the air for a moment.</p><p>To his satisfaction, England offers up nothing except stunned silence. Impressive! It seems he is capable of common courtesy after all. Smiling, France continues. “Running a charity is something I have wanted to attempt for quite some time. And so, with the new decade, I decided to stop waiting and to seize my chance. Why not give it a try, you know? At least, that is how I felt. But in reality, doing this sort of work is far more complicated than I anticipated. There is so much research, accounting, and legal politics involved. Ah, but it is for a good cause and I find myself enjoying it. C'est voilà.”</p><p>“You organized it all by yourself?” England asks, hesitantly.<br/>
 <br/>
“Oui, but of course. Although, I have several volunteers assisting with the work.” France realizes that England has become strangely quiet. “Hmm, what is wrong? Have you been rendered speechless by my noble and generous heart?”</p><p>“How many people have you told this to?”<br/>
 <br/>
“Ahh,” France remarks, “you think I am doing this to improve my image.”</p><p>“It wouldn’t be the first time.”</p><p>France muses, “Well, I have told Spain... and now you. That is all, for the time being. I am fairly happy with the progress being made, but I have not discussed it with many people. It is more of a personal project, after all.” Being so dear to his heart, this charity is something he tries to keep close.</p><p>“Then,” England asks, “why are you being so open about it?”</p><p>“Hm, I wonder,” France vaguely answers. He is saved from exploring those ambiguous thoughts by the appearance of their destination. “Ah, it seems we have arrived!”</p><p>“Oh, yes,” England says, glancing towards the hotel. France hears a touch of disappointment in England’s tone, but that may just be his own imagination.</p><p>Flags hang proudly from the hotel’s old brick walls. A white stone staircase leads up to tall, arched double doors. The words ‘La Résidence’ are written in cursive gold above the entrance. On any other day, France may think of it as romantic, but tonight, its aura is bittersweet.</p><p>“I may sample a few restaurants in the area,” he says casually. “You are heading in?”</p><p>England grunts. “I can’t bloody well carry this lot around all night.” He shifts the cardboard box in his arms. France chuckles quietly.<br/>
 <br/>
“I suppose not,” he admits.</p><p>Something feels unfinished and unsaid. France wants some sort of answer, some reason, some explanation from England. Why did he decide to leave the Union? Why did he take such a good thing and toss it aside? For France, speculation is not enough; he wants to hear the whole story. Unfortunately, he also knows that asking outright will end terribly. Weaselling any difficult truth out of England is no easy task, and France has spent enough time around the fool to know when to press further and when to keep quiet. Still, it's a shame to leave things as they are, isn’t it?</p><p>“Right, then,” England hesitantly says, and France cannot mistake the reluctance on his face. “Good luck with your charity, I suppose. And whatever else. ...Frog.” The telltale weight returns to his shoulders and without a second glance, he turns towards the hotel.</p><p>He really does look pathetic, doesn’t he? A bit like a mix between a kicked puppy and a divorcee who lost it all in the separation.</p><p>As England climbs the stone staircase, France feels as though he is at another crossroads. He can choose to make the most of their last shared night as Union members or he can simply let England go. The latter feels like a cold wind, hollow and empty. To pursue or abandon, France asks himself, which will it be? Once again, the temptation of ‘what-if’ is too enticing, and he already has his answer.</p><p>“Angleterre!” France calls with a thrill. “Let’s get a drink together!” Naturally, France mentally congratulates himself on being so kind to those in need.</p><p>“Wh- What?” England stutters, stopping halfway up the steps. He turns to face France and gives him an incredulous look. “Now?” France's grin broadens.</p><p>“Of course! Go put your things away and we can enjoy some exciting nightlife.”</p><p>“You can’t just go asking that all of a sudden!” England protests. “Besides, I can’t. I’m... busy.”</p><p>France is certainly not buying that pathetic excuse. Usually, England is always able to make time for one, or two, or fifteen drinks, regardless of any pressing work he may need to finish. Tonight, he is probably planning to return to his tiny hotel room and consume an entire case of cheap, low-quality, dishwater beer all alone. How depressing. The least France can do is offer the hopeless soul an invitation to spare him from such an awful fate.</p><p>“You are not so busy, Angleterre,” France says. “Any work you have can wait! It is a gorgeous winter night! Why spend it alone when the immaculate France is offering you the gift of his presence? This is a rare opportunity, you know. Such a chance may not come again for quite some time!”</p><p>A familiar spark alights in England’s eyes. He holds for a moment and checks his wristwatch with a scowl.</p><p>France waits, but the silence drags on. Slowly the warmth in his chest dissolves. Perhaps he is mistaken and there is no crossroads for them tonight.</p><p>“...If you insist,” England mutters.</p><p>“Very well, but it is your loss.” France says, before the response registers in his mind. “...Wait, pardon?”</p><p>“I’m only agreeing out of pity!” England quickly confirms. “The way you keep grovelling to spend time with me is ridiculous. Go pick out a pub and text me the address. I’ll be along once I’ve dropped this off.”</p><p>With his cheeks as red as a cherry, England hurriedly climbs the last of the steps and disappears into the hotel. France is left mildly stunned. Butterflies are fluttering from his heart to his fingertips. He breathes in the delicious scents of the night air and dances off down the street with the grace of a ballerina. It is always a special treat to see his trust to luck pay off.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* Potatoes, cream and sausage are all common foods in Belgian cuisine. Yum!<br/>* Hey, remember what it was like in January 2020, when we actually had events like the Olympics to look forward to? Good times... good times...<br/>* “A divorcee who lost it all in the separation” is a good description of Brexit.<br/>* In Chapter 1, England has plans to drink expensive gin by himself. But naturally, France assumes he will drink something gross, like “dishwater beer”. France doesn’t have a high opinion of England’s tastebuds, alcohol or otherwise.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The One Who Calls Him Angleterre</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The bar France chose is surprisingly ideal; not too quiet, not too busy. Its old, earthy wooden door at the front entrance is slightly ajar, inviting strangers out of the cold. Next to it, a bronze plaque proudly claims ‘Established in 1748’. England peers through its large, street-facing window. He sighs. It seems this isn’t some elaborate prank.</p><p>Normally, he isn’t this guarded. But with all that’s been going on, he can’t help being extra suspicious. The mountains of lonely, stressful work related to Brexit have driven him nearly mad. It may be nice to relax, indulge, and pretend everything is normal for a while. He glances at his watch. Well, at least he can enjoy himself for the few short hours he has left.</p><p>As he opens the door, a wave of warmth breaks past the chill of the outside air and prickles England’s ears. The welcoming scent of barley and booze puts him at ease. Solid wood floors that creak when he steps over them, stone brick walls that could tell stories, old lanterns hanging from the ceiling - refitted with lightbulbs, of course.... If it weren’t for the French and German menus, England could mistake this restaurant pub for being one of his own.</p><p>France, sitting alone at the bar, waves him over.</p><p>“I took the liberty of saving you a seat,” he says, sweetly.</p><p>“You couldn’t have picked one farther away?” England responds, removing his coat and hanging it off the back of the chair. Unfazed, France grins and calls the bartender. Just as England sits down, a portly woman from behind the counter approaches the pair with a smile.</p><p>“Hallo, salut,” the bartender greets.</p><p>“Bonjour, chéri!” France sings, turning on his signature charm. “May I ask your name?”</p><p>“You can call me Marie,” she introduces.</p><p>“Marie, if you have it, I would adore a glass of Burgundy Pinot noir from 2005.” Leave it to France to order high-class wine from a simple pub.</p><p>Nodding, Marie then turns to England and asks, “For yourself?”<br/>
 <br/>
“Ah,” England fumbles. “Just a stout, thanks.” She thanks the pair and steps away to promptly fetch their orders.</p><p>“I must say,” France says. “I am a little bit surprised. Part of me did not expect you to show.”</p><p>“Well, I said I would, didn’t I?” England huffs quickly. “Besides, we get drinks together all the bloody time. Nothing’s different about tonight.” By France’s knowing smile, England is aware of how silly that last bit sounded.</p><p>“Hmm, I think maybe a few things are different,” France quietly contends. “But it is not worth yielding to.”</p><p>Before England can consider France’s remark, the sincere bartender returns with their drinks. She sets the beverages down in front of the pair. The tantalizing droplets on England’s tall glass glitter in the warm light. He grabs it and greedily guzzles down the bitter, chocolate-brown fluid. It fizzes and burns his throat pleasantly. France swirls his wine glass in his hand and nonchalantly regards his rival. “Cher, if you get drunk,” he remarks with a smirk, “I am not going to drag you back to your hotel room this time. Not after already dirtying my gorgeous new coat tonight.” Swallowing with a gasp, England plunks down his half-empty pint.</p><p>“It’s new?” he taunts. “Looks as though you got it second-hand.”</p><p>“Only the common fools dare to criticize the experts.” France playfully leers, nudging England’s shin with his foot.</p><p>Well, excuse-my-bloody-self then, England thinks. He watches as France closes his eyes and delicately sips at his wine. Apparently, the man seems to think he is among high society wherever he goes.</p><p>France’s golden, silky curls are perfect, as usual. That navy-blue turtleneck he’s wearing is probably absurdly expensive, given its soft texture, and the way it accents his eyes. It’s frustrating, sometimes, to look at the man. Rarely is there ever a flaw in his appearance, and England can’t decide if that’s ridiculous or admirable. He suspects the only reason France bothers dressing up so often is because he adores the attention it brings. Unfortunately, ‘fashion’ is not a personality, but France probably missed that memo.</p><p>Then again, even when he isn’t trying, France still ends up looking fantasti—</p><p><em> --Terrible! </em> He looks terrible.</p><p>England distracts his traitorous mind by taking another hearty swig of beer.<br/>
 <br/>
“What’s the name of that charity you were going on about?” England asks, scrambling for conversation. He sets his empty glass down and signals the bartender for another.</p><p>France replies enthusiastically. “What a surprise! The little island nation cares about my noble pursuits? I’m overjoyed.”</p><p>“I do not. I just want to be sure you weren’t lying.”</p><p>“Of course, I understand,” France coos. “You could never admit to being interested in my...<em> secret activities. </em>It is called ‘Prospérer’ and yes, we do have our own website. You can look us up through Google if you would like.”</p><p>Frowning, England mumbles, “...Was it absolutely necessary to drop your voice several octaves when saying ‘secret activities’?”</p><p>“To see that embarrassed little blush spreading across your face, Angleterre? Yes, it was absolutely necessary.” France grins and giggles mischievously.</p><p>Marie manages to save England’s soul with a second beer. He resumes guzzling alcohol. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of a clock on the far wall, but it is too distant to read the time.</p><p>It’s a little strange, England thinks. Since entering this pub, not a single one of his thoughts drifted back to stress or melancholy. For the past four years, his brain has been nothing but a steady unyielding stream of virulent Brexit anxiety. Strangely, pretending all is well really does seem to be working out. He glances subtly at the man drinking wine next to him, the only person who calls him ‘Angleterre’.</p><p>The thing is, France<em> is </em> acting differently. Like England, he’s also going along with the façade that everything is as it should be. All night, France has been more amicable than he has any right to be. Given the entire impending mess, France should at least be dismissive, if not, outright hostile toward England… but he hasn’t been. Why?</p><p>England isn’t sure if he wants to ask that question exactly, so he goes with something else.</p><p>Gathering up a little courage, England asks, “Why do you only do that with me?”<br/>
 <br/>
“Hm?” France responds, setting down his glass.<br/>
 <br/>
“You only use your native tongue when saying my name,” England says, hoping he doesn’t sound too curious. “You never do that with anyone else.”</p><p>It’s amazing that after so many centuries he never thought to ask this before. France pauses, then grants him a sardonic smile and waves a hand dismissively.<br/>
 <br/>
“You are sorely mistaken,” he laughs. “I adore switching into my lovely language whenever I can.”</p><p>Knowing that France can lie far better than that, England wonders if he should just let it go. However, for some reason he doesn’t want to. Maybe it’s the beer talking. It has to be.</p><p>“No, you don’t,” England says, stubbornness outweighing his trepidation. “Whenever you’re speaking English, Italy is always Italy. Greece is always Greece. Poland is Poland.” The amusement melts off France’s face. A stillness falls over his appealing frame as he grants the other his full, careful attention. It’s the second time tonight that England has seen that look. The very same expression made him uncomfortable earlier in the evening, when they were walking to the hotel. England continues, “For some reason, I’m always... Angle Tear.”</p><p>A beat of silence.</p><p>France blinks. “...I’m sorry, you are... <em>what?” </em><br/>
 <br/>
“Angle Tear,” England repeats with absolute certainty. “You say it all the bloody time. So, explain to me why you... Hey, are you listening? Oi! I’m being serious!”</p><p>France buries his face in his hands and trembles quietly.</p><p>England squints. “...Are you <em>laughing at me?”</em></p><p>France cracks, releasing a charming musical laughter loud enough to garner a few stares from the other restaurant patrons.</p><p>“Please!” France cries. “I am begging you. Please improve your French or never speak it again. Next time, I may just simply die.”</p><p>As is his wont, France has ruined a perfectly good half hour. England kicks at France’s knees. Unfortunately, it has no effect on the frog’s gleeful amusement.</p><p>England feels the heat of the sun flushing underneath his cheeks. “Oh, piss off you twat!”</p><p>“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You were being <em>so serious,</em> though! Can you truly blame me?”</p><p>“’Course I can,” England grumbles into his beer glass.</p><p>“Well, do not be distressed,” France says, sliding out of his chair. “I am going to quickly head to the restroom. And when I get back....” He coyly leans in, and England can pick up France’s cologne as it swirls its way through the odour of alcohol. Pepper, lavender, and cardamom entangle together to create a scent that’s leathery, sweet and classically masculine. “... maybe I will answer your question. So, don’t run away on me,<em> Angleterre</em>.”</p><p>A slow, deliberate finger drags lightly down the curve of England’s spine, causing the hairs of his neck to stand on end. He reflexively swats at France, who easily dodges out of the way and prances off, giggling as he goes.</p><p>Poor England is left alone to stew in his own embarrassment.</p><p>So what if he pronounced the word wrong? France didn’t have to make him feel like a bloody idiot just for asking an insignificant question. That stupid, perverted ass with his aromatic cologne and wandering fingers....</p><p>Ruminating on this is only making England squirm, and he quickly opens his phone as a distraction. Social media is out of the question for today and checking the news would just be depressing. So, he punches ‘Prospérer charity’ into the search bar and immediately finds France’s website.</p><p>Mildly surprised to see that it is indeed real, England scrolls through the little site. Photos of smiling children, fact sheets, graphs... All professionally put together. Though he hates to admit, it’s evident that a fair bit of time and dedication went into this charity project.</p><p>Well, now he just feels like a right asshole for doubting France this entire time. Damn.</p><p>Eventually he reaches the donation page and glares at it.</p><p>It’s not like he owes France for being uncharacteristically kind this evening. And he definitely doesn’t care if this charity is a success or not. The way France glowed with pride and affection when explaining his goals for the New Year... it really makes no difference to England at all.</p><p>But still, it may just feel nice to do something positive for a change; something that won’t inflict the disdain of all Europe. Wouldn’t that be a good feeling to get used to?</p><p>And besides, a donation wouldn’t<em> really </em>be helping France. It’d be helping impoverished children and families. Yes, exactly! There’s nothing odd or unusual about that, right?</p><p>Before he changes his mind, England quickly taps through the donation system. Auto-entering his credit card information, he makes a contribution anonymously. At least without his name appearing on the site, France won’t be able to tease him for caring.</p><p>Reclining in his chair with a sigh, England reads the charity’s thank-you message with a strange mix of relief and vulnerability. Hopefully, no one will find out about this. He has a reputation to uphold as the ‘Black Sheep of Europe’, after all.</p><p>Marie pops over and asks him if he’d like a refill, motioning to his empty pint.<br/>
 <br/>
“I’m alright for now,” England says. “Thank you.” Smiling, she takes the dirty cup and walks away.</p><p>As chattering bar guests clink glasses and make merry, a small, hopeful sense of contentment settles in his chest. What a strange night this is. Defying all expectations, things seem to be going quite alright.</p><p>Through the haze of comfort, England hears the pub’s front door swing open.<br/>
 <br/>
“See, see? I told you this was the right way!” sings a merry Italian accent. “You should trust me next time, Germany! I can always find a place with good wine!”</p><p>Instantly, an unmistakable voice cuts through the peace like a knife. Serenity gives way to blood-freezing panic and England cannot believe his horrific luck. </p><p>“It would seem so,” says a deep, commanding tone. “Still, I’d rather we hadn’t spent so long searching for it.” England can’t bring himself to look anywhere except the rotten floor as a plethora of winter boots stamp in through the main entrance. This can’t be happening. This<em> should not </em>be happening.</p><p>“Aw West, who cares?” says Prussia. “I’m thirsty! Go get me a lager.”</p><p>Negativity floods down England’s back, through his heart and into his shoes. Dread, guilt, shame, and worst of all, fear. Everything that he’d forgotten for the past merciful half hour now comes crawling back out of the shadows. He doesn’t want to acknowledge any of it, but what choice does he have? Steeling his nerves, England timidly, reluctantly, turns to face the people he saw as friends just five years ago. The ones he now recoils from, as though they are his enemies.</p><p>Spain, Belgium, Netherlands, Italy, Romano, Prussia, and Germany.</p><p><em> Jesus fucking Christ.</em> All England wants to do is hide. Or die. Whichever one is easier.</p><p>Belgium glances about the room and slowly comes to lock eyes with England.</p><p>Surprise stifles her rosy face, and a quiet “Oh...” is all she says. Her concerned tone stops the group of nations in their tracks, and in turn, they each notice the piteous outcast sitting at the bar. England catches the wealth of reactions that streak through them – shock, confusion, and (for a couple) disdain.</p><p>Stomach twisting into sickening knots, England swallows against the lump in his throat. The air is thick and suffocating. All thought shuts down and he can only stare back in painfully awkward silence. He has the grim feeling that no one knows what to say.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* France asks for a Burgundy Pinot noir from 2005. The area of Burgundy in France is famous for this type of wine, and according to some, they taste their best after 15 – 20 years.<br/>* Fanfiction writers frequently write nations naming their lovers in their native tongue, even though it isn’t so common in canon. I’ve always enjoyed FrUK fics that have this little “Angleterre” detail, so I wanted to give it the recognition it deserves.<br/>* France’s cologne was inspired by a description I read online of a fancy Hugo Boss perfume. Advertisers really know how to make smells sound... incredibly sexy.<br/>* Did you know? Donating to charity has been proven to make you happier and healthier. When we give to others, our brains release endorphins that reduce stress and improve our mood.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Black Sheep</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the bar’s tiny, single-person restroom, France takes his sweet time. He checks himself over in the mirror and marvels at how incredibly well he is managing the night so far. France knows himself to be a cunning linguist, but tonight he is just on fire.</p><p>Unfortunately, he is not sure how to answer England’s question; the reason why he calls the man ‘Angleterre’. He can try, though. Perhaps he should say, “Speaking your language is so taxing and saying your name is such a chore. I could never do both at the same time without injuring my vocal cords.” </p><p>France snorts quietly at the thought.</p><p>No, no, no! As funny as it sounds in his mind, that would just be too cruel! England, the poor soul, looked so adorably earnest when he asked, as if he truly did wish for an honest answer. The way pink flushed into his cheeks, crept over the tips of his ears, and then flooded his entire face... It was delightful.</p><p>France twists open the sink tap and lets the warm water envelop his hands. So much about England is hilariously compelling. From his characteristic brows, to his frumpy outfits, to the hair that’s as stubborn as its owner. How he trips over his own tongue in social settings and struggles to maintain the air of a ‘gentleman’. How he squawks at France’s light teasing and attempts to furtively hide what, or who, he deeply cares about. He’s an old-fashioned nation, born stuffy and prudish. On paper, he sounds boring - like a slice of plain, burnt toast. Yet, for France, England is anything but.</p><p>Wiping his hands dry on a paper towel, France realizes he still is not sure of what answer to give his companion. He supposes though, he has time to figure something out. The evening is still young, after all.</p><p>Pushing out of the restroom and into the vibrant restaurant, France grasps onto the twinkle of happiness in his heart. It’s warm, reassuring, and perhaps even somewhat romantic. What a strange feeling to have on the eve of Brexit. He makes his way back to his seat.</p><p>And the blissful atmosphere evaporates.</p><p>England is not there.</p><p>Faltering, France glances around the bar. His eyes dart from tables, to happy strangers, to dark corners of the room, but there is no sign of his grumpy companion. Quickly, he inspects their seats. England’s coat is gone and there are a few crumpled Euro bills resting on the bar counter.</p><p>Thorns twist around France’s heart. Did England truly just leave without a word?</p><p>Utterly bewildered, he runs through the night’s events in his mind, trying to place where he went wrong. Was his teasing too much? No, hardly. After a thousand years, England is surely well acquainted with France’s flirtatious nature. On occasion, he’s even been responsive to it. But if not that, then what could be the cause for such an extreme reaction?</p><p>A familiar voice calls out over the background chatter, nabbing France’s attention.</p><p>“Hey, France!” the voice cackles from behind. “What’re you doing here?”</p><p>Startled, France turns to witness a surprising sight: several of his friends squished in a booth clearly meant for fewer people. They all easily meet his gaze. Prussia with his sharp grin, Spain with his tousled brown locks, Belgium, Germany... All welcome appearances of course, but how can this be?</p><p>“Big brother France, it’s you!” cheers Italy. Smiling wide, he waves his arms enthusiastically. “Come join us!”</p><p>“Italy?” France wonders aloud, approaching the group. “Everyone, what are you all doing here?”</p><p>“What’s it look like?” Romano scoffs. “We’re getting drinks, dumbass.”</p><p>“You should join us!” Italy joyfully repeats, bouncing on his worn, leather chair. He shifts himself over to offer France a small corner of the seat - barely enough for one leg.</p><p>“Thank you,” France says, “but... did any of you happen to see Angleterre when you came in?”</p><p>Discomfort falls over the troop. They glance awkwardly amongst themselves and shuffle around a bit. Even Italy’s buoyant energy deflates.</p><p>The cogwheels in France’s mind are already turning and he can guess what likely happened.</p><p>Belgium is the first to speak up. “We did, yes...” she reluctantly admits. “It was pretty uncomfortable, though.”</p><p>“He sort of stared at us for a while. Then he left,” Spain adds with a pitying shrug.</p><p>“I wish that dickhead had stayed for just a bit longer,” Romano bites, “so I could kick his teeth in.”</p><p>France exhales partly with relief and partly with regretful frustration. In hindsight, he realizes that he probably should have chosen a different bar. It’s only natural that any establishment serving Burgundy wine would be on Italy and Romano’s radar. At least he can count his blessings that a wild wrestling match did not occur in this quaint little pub.</p><p>Still, this misfortune throws an entire wrench into his evening. All the effort he put into cultivating a relaxing climate for himself and England is wasted. Distress weighs heavily on his shoulders. Is there any way he can salvage this? He has not the faintest idea what to do.</p><p>“France, hey,” Spain soothes. “It’s alright.”</p><p>Sympathy glimmers behind Spain’s chartreuse eyes. He’s caught on, France realizes. Spain is fantastic at reading the atmosphere. If asked, he could likely list twelve of France’s thoughts at this exact moment. “Spend the night with us!” he offers with a sunny smile, and everyone at the table hurriedly pipes up in agreement.</p><p>Their sympathy is healing and for a moment, France considers it. If his chance at finding understanding with England is truly lost, then what’s the harm? Staying here, amongst his friends, would be so painless. He can relax with them and set his troubles aside. It should be the more appealing option.</p><p>It should be, but it isn’t. Defying all rationale, there is some unruly part of himself that wants to chase England down. He wants to take the riskier gamble. Within the foggy mystery of France’s own heart, there stands a profound lamentation for their crisis and a desire to, somehow, make things right.</p><p>He owes England nothing. And yet, like a hook tugging at his core, France is drawn to him. This is not pity, France understands. It is a bond, stretching over eons and waters. A bond that he does not wish to see broken. Not ever.</p><p>France takes a deep breath that spreads conviction from his centre to his fingertips. Then, smiling, he addresses his friends.</p><p>“You all know how<em> dearly </em> I adore you,” he explains. “But unfortunately, there is somewhere I must be.”</p><p>A chorus of disappointed pleas rise up from the table as France slowly backs away. “I’m honoured to have your invitation, but I am just one man. You understand, oui?”</p><p>He catches Spain sighing and feels a bit guilty. “Do not worry though,” France adds with spirit. “I will see you all at tomorrow’s meeting. We can get lunch together! How does that sound?” Regardless of what happens with England, France makes a promise with himself to confide in Spain as soon as he can.</p><p>Turning to reach for his coat, he happily calls back over his shoulder. “Do not get into any mischief without me! And try not to drink too much, alright?”</p><p><em> “France.” </em> </p><p>Germany’s deep tone is curt. It hits like a splash of ice water and causes France to stop immediately. All the other nations fall silent. Germany clears his throat. “I think it would be better if you didn’t follow him.”</p><p>France hesitates. He isn’t sure what expression he has on his face, so he decides not to meet Germany’s gaze. Like rain soaking through to skin, misgiving quietly seeps into his chest.</p><p>Not receiving any response, Germany steadily continues, sowing doubt with each letter. “These past four years, England has made it very clear that he wants nothing to do with us. In a few short hours, his separation will take effect, and he will no longer be part of this Union. He will be an outsider, completely through his own will.” He finishes by conceding, “I cannot tell you what to do. But... You should probably reconsider your actions.”</p><p>The boisterous chatter of the bar has grown faint and the front door is so far away. France wonders if this little touch of shame gives him any inkling of how England feels tonight. The silence stretches, long and thin, until Prussia breaks it.</p><p>“...Gee, West,” he comments. “You uh... really have a way with words.” <br/>
 <br/>
“What do you mean?” Germany asks. Even without looking, France can imagine his clueless blink. A chair slides across the wooden floor and he hears a set of footsteps approaching. Gently, Spain places a reassuring hand on France’s shoulder.</p><p>“France,” he whispers. “You don’t need to chase after England. You’ve already done plenty for him tonight, haven’t you?” Spain can infer so much from so little. It truly is amazing. “Remember, you have us!” Spain says, gesturing to the group. “We’re here for you, and for each other. But England... He isn’t like that. He’s not worth your time.”</p><p>Regrettably, France is aware that Spain could be right. England may be a futile obstacle, suited only for squandering love and hours. But then, at times, the past has shown otherwise, hasn’t it? Whether or not he’s chasing the ghosts of his foolish imagination, France longs to know for certain. Is that so ridiculous of him?</p><p>Breaking through the hush, Prussia again pipes up from his seat.</p><p>“Hey, France,” he blurts. “Lemme buy you a drink, at least.”</p><p>“You don’t have any money,” Netherlands reminds him.</p><p>“Oh, right,” Prussia says. “In that case, let West buy you a drink.”</p><p>Germany sputters something about ‘free-loading’ and a few light giggles flutter around the table. Realizing that he truly has wonderful companions, France bravely smiles.</p><p>He turns to Spain and says, “...Any other time, cher, you’d have me. But I can’t. Not tonight.”</p><p>He gives Spain the warmest hug he can offer. Then, France gathers his coat and tosses some cash nimbly onto the counter. Determination in his eyes, he takes off into the frigid night.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* In Chapter 2, France claims he has no interest in chasing England down. And yet, that’s exactly what he ends up doing here. Hmmm... is France a bit of a hypocrite?<br/>* In my first draft, the conversation between France and his friends was much shorter. Only after re-reading it, did I choose to add their perspectives on England and Brexit. I think it builds on the whole context of the story and brings more weight to events that will happen in coming chapters.<br/>* I really didn’t want to make the EU nations out to be “bad guys”. It would’ve been easy to write them all laughing and shit-talking England... but it just wouldn’t feel right. It’s more natural to regretfully pull away from a former friend, rather than to curse their name. They’ve lost trust in England, but I don’t think they furiously hate him. At least, I hope not.<br/>* Except maybe Romano. He strikes me as the kind of guy who sees things in black and white. Then again, maybe he only acts that way to look tough.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Isolation of the Heart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Shame hanging off him like a weighted chain, England storms back towards his miserable hotel. Lights, shops, and people fly past his vision in a blur. He ducks through the chaos with urgency. Chilly air stings his lungs with every breath, but he doesn’t slow down. The world around him is exceedingly bright and loud. Boisterous European citizens drink and chatter away as though nothing about today is significant. As though everything isn’t falling to pieces. </p><p>England can’t begin to fathom their happiness.</p><p>Spotting his pathetic sanctuary in the distance, England sprints for it, only to be blocked by blaring traffic and crowds. Stress mounting, he pushes through the sea of people, dashes across the street, and ignores the angry car horns bellowing at him. He takes the white stone steps two at a time and wrenches the hotel’s front door open. Its metal frame bangs against the outside wall. A few guests lingering about the lobby stare, but he's well beyond giving a damn.</p><p>Up flights of stairs and down the corridors, he at last comes to his rental. He fumbles through his coat pockets for his blasted room card. Finally finding it, he swipes it through the mechanical lock and throws himself into his room.</p><p>Panting, England stands shakily as the wooden door swings shut behind him. His brain is abuzz with adrenaline and he can hear blood pounding in his ears. Finally, though, he's safely inside the dull walls of his hotel room.</p><p>Smooth, dark grey carpet. Drywall the colour of post-it notes. His shabby cardboard box of knick-knacks. This place is where he should have been the entire time: shut up in this room, making no noise and pretending he doesn’t exist.</p><p>Give him any war-torn battlefield and he’ll stare down death itself. But in the middling trials of everyday social life, England is a complete mess. Although, he supposes that encounter in the pub was more than just a ‘middling trial’. To a greater extent, it felt like a waking nightmare.</p><p>With all those familiar faces pitying him, there was nothing England could do. What could he have even said?</p><p>‘Hello, chaps! Sorry I’ve gone and trashed our working relationship, but that’s just politics, innit? A few burnt bridges come with the territory! No hard feelings though, right?’</p><p>
  <em> ...For fuck’s sake. </em>
</p><p>A potent mixture of frustration, guilt, and regret nag at England’s mind. He's just a cowardly dog, running away from the consequences of his own actions.</p><p>Instead of repeatedly bashing his skull against the nearest wall, England settles with chucking off his outdoor attire. He tosses his coat, scarf and gloves onto the sandy desk chair, kicks off his shoes, and collapses face-first onto the lonely bed. He checks the digital clock on the bedside table, which cruelly reads 8:22PM. Shoving a crumpled pillow into his face, he breathes in the faint smell of industrial fabric detergent and tries to calm his quaking nerves.</p><p>Despite all his worldly conquests, he never discovered a spell to rewind time. What England wouldn’t give to go back an hour and run off with France to some secluded place, hidden from the rest of the world. Maybe someplace where they could just be, without the Brexit bollocks hanging over them. Where he could just stare at the elegant twat, listen to his obnoxious laughter, let the alcohol melt away their inhibitions, and then....</p><p>Mushing his cheeks into the pillow’s fabric, England imagines it being softer, blonder. That it isn’t a pillow at all, and is instead the frog’s stupid, flawless hair.</p><p>It isn’t fair.</p><p>The universe can’t give him a damned moment’s peace.</p><p>Sighing sourly, England’s thoughts rampage with anger and paranoia.</p><p>How the<em> hell </em>did they all run into each other? Belgium drinks more beer than she drinks water. She has probably a thousand pubs in Brussels alone! What sort of twisted God would send Germany, Italy, and an entire slew of nations directly to the one particular bar that France picked out?</p><p>The likelihood is so incredibly small. The only way it could happen is if it was planned out in advance!</p><p>Remembering France’s charming behaviour, the way he encouraged England to come drinking, how he disappeared the exact moment everyone else waltzed in, England’s heart sinks like a stone. The morbid jigsaw puzzle clicks together so perfectly.</p><p>Gob-smacked at his own realization, England sits bolt upright. He twists the pillow in his fists as a wave of anguish crashes over him. He cannot believe his own naivety.</p><p>It was a bloody set up.</p><p>What other explanation is there? It was a cruel, sadistic prank and England fell for it entirely. All because he was so desperate for something normal - for France to treat him as if nothing changed.</p><p>Trusting France only ever spells disaster. He’s always known that. What a fool he was to momentarily hope otherwise. England’s breathing hitches as he imagines France back at the bar, snickering with his friends over their successful joke.</p><p>So be it, then. He can lock these idiotic feelings up and bury them six feet under - a method he’s painfully familiar with. And in a few hours, he’ll be cut off from Europe, which will make the whole process easier. Any economic struggle will be far better than dealing with France, that wretched wanker. Even if it means ruining his own citizens' prosperity, and wallowing in hopeless, rotten isolation for decades....</p><p>Trembling, his grip on the pillow weakens. A headache sparks and burns through his temples. Bitterness crumbles to despair and England trudges over to the hotel phone. He dials for room service.</p><p>“How may we be of assistance?” asks the impersonal man over the speaker.</p><p>“Could you um,” England mutters pathetically. “Just... bring me up a bottle of gin?”</p><p>“Of course. Do you know which brand you would like?”</p><p>“No, I... Whatever you’ve got is fine; I don’t particularly care. So long as it’s at least 80 proof.”</p><p>“Very well, we will send a waiter up to you in just a moment.”</p><p>Without so much as a ‘thank you’, England hangs up the receiver and slinks back over to his bed. Crawling on top of the covers, he lays down on his back and stares up at the blank ceiling. He rests an arm on his forehead in a feeble attempt to ease the throbbing in his skull.</p><p>If nothing else, he’ll finally get to drown his headache and misery in alcohol. Maybe even the terrible memories of today will vanish as he drinks himself into unconscious oblivion.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* “...shut up in his room, making no noise and pretending he doesn’t exist” is a little Harry Potter reference I threw in there.<br/>* Given France and England’s history, the ‘it was all a prank’ theory is a somewhat reasonable assumption for England to have.<br/>* For non-UK folks, 80 proof is about 45% alcohol by volume. Drinking an entire bottle of something that strong is... definitely not healthy.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. The Fool and the Fool Who Follows Him</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Pulling his coat on, France eyes the winding cobblestone sidewalks. The familiar city echoes with vehicles and voices. The streets are teeming with far more people than earlier. He takes a breath, easing his spirit, and momentarily wonders which route he should take.</p><p>There are only a few places England would run off to. Either he has gone off in search of a quieter pub or he has returned to his secure hotel room. With Brussels being home to countless bars, it would be impossible to check each one before sunrise. And so, France’s only option is to try the inn. He weaves through the bustling crowds; making his way back to their lodging.</p><p>Heels clicking with unrest, France eventually arrives. He pulls open the glass double-doors and glances around the lobby. There are a few guests chatting on auburn sofas and some idling at the oaken front desk. However, there is no sign of England’s rough blonde head. Frowning, France presses on, heading for the guestrooms.</p><p>Thankfully, Germany is a man of orderly habit. He routinely assigns hotel rooms according to a nation’s geographic location. Meaning, France’s room is always fortunately, or unfortunately, in the vicinity of England’s.</p><p>All France has to do is knock on the doors nearest to his own and if England is in, hopefully he will answer.</p><p>Coming up to the third floor, he briskly follows the carpeted corridor. Eggshell walls and walnut doors fly past his sight. As he approaches, France catches snippets of conversation between a pair of men farther down the hall.</p><p>“W-Well, unfortunately,” an unfamiliar voice stammers, “since the room is not in your name, you’ll have to pay up front.”</p><p>“Fine, but listen,” England insists. “I haven’t got any Euros left, alright? I spent them. All I have right now is Pounds.”</p><p>A relieving sigh escapes France’s chest. He’s found his foolish companion, thank goodness.</p><p>“I’m sorry sir,” the other man declines. “We can’t accept British currency--”</p><p>“And why not?” England barks. “The conversion rate is still alright; you’ve got nothing to worry about!”</p><p>Drawing closer, France sees the issue. Standing in the open doorway to his room, arms crossed, England bitterly berates the nervous man in front of him. Dressed in a staff uniform, the unlucky individual is carefully cradling a clear, glass bottle under his arm. From the red label, it looks to be some type of liquor. Likely England’s room service order.</p><p>This situation may prove to be a slight challenge. <br/>
 <br/>
Interrupting the exchange, France gingerly asks, “Can you not pay the poor man with a credit card?” England flinches, his head whipping to France in slack-jawed surprise. He gapes for a second or two before his expression closes off into a scowl.</p><p>“Oh, look who it is,” he scoffs, hurt reflecting in his forest green eyes. “Happy you didn’t have to ‘drag me back to my hotel room’ then?”</p><p>“Angleterre,” France soothes. “You really did not need to leave.” England bristles like a threatened porcupine and France realizes this was not the correct thing to say.</p><p>“Shut up, you back-stabbing wanker. I should’ve known better than to trust you for an instant.”</p><p>“...What are you talking about?” France cautiously inquires.</p><p>“You set me up!” England exclaims, jabbing an accusing finger at France’s nose. “Leaving at just the right moment before Germany and his gaggle walked in. You planned out that entire mess! You must have.” He drops his arm in defeat, muttering, “I’ll bet you all had a great laugh at my expense. Not like everything wasn’t shit enough already.”</p><p>Out of the corner of his eye, France catches the waiter attempting to quietly sneak away. England snaps at him. “Oi! Don’t you walk off with my gin! You stay here until we’re bloody finished!”</p><p>The pathetic attendant flinches and whimpers.</p><p>With his lips curled and skin paling, England looks even more haggard than earlier. Despair does not suit him and France is not about to throw away the whole evening based on some wild conspiracy. There has to be some way to save this situation.</p><p>Gesturing at England, he tries reason. “Are you hearing yourself? You are creating fantasies out of thin air. I did not know the others were going to be there; it was just an unfortunate coincidence.” England glares at him.</p><p>“Really?” he counters, sarcasm dripping off his tongue. “I find that a little hard to accept.”</p><p>“Accept it or not, it is the truth. After you left, the atmosphere was so unpleasant... Why on earth would I subject either of us to that? There was no plot, cher. No one was laughing.”</p><p>“France, do you know how many pubs there are within walking distance of this hotel?” <br/>
 <br/>
“...Non? Is this something I should know?”</p><p>“Twenty-three. With those odds, how could anyone just<em> casually </em>stumble into us?”</p><p>“That may have been my mistake. You see, that particular estaminet serves wine from... Wait a moment. How do you know such an exact number?”</p><p>“I’m an alcoholic.”</p><p>France sighs with irritation. “If any of this nonsense were true, then why would I chase you all the way here? Hm?”</p><p>“Because you’d want to rub it in my face,” England huffs.</p><p>“You are growing more paranoid in your old age,” France mocks, his composure wavering. “If I had truly planned this, I would still be at the restaurant with my dear friends. But I am not. I am here. Tu comprends?”</p><p>Blinking, England balks for a short moment.</p><p>“Pah!” he spits, ploughing on. “Then why the hell would they show up at our exact location? Explain that!”</p><p>“Hmph. Obviously, that is because it is one of the finest bars nearby.<em> And </em> it is the only one serving a wide selection of both wine and beer.”</p><p>“What difference does that make?”</p><p>“Spain, Italy and Romano all favour wine, and the others prefer beer.”</p><p>Narrowing his eyes, England hesitates. “And how could you possibly know that’s the <em>only</em> spot nearby?” <br/>
 <br/>
“Because-!” Simmering on the edge of frustration, France takes in a deep breath and readies the finishing blow. “When I was looking for a place that <b>we</b> would both like this evening, that was my criteria: an estaminet serving the drinks <em>we both enjoy.”</em> </p><p>The hall is suddenly very quiet. </p><p>“Oh. But...” England murmurs, his brows furrowing with thought. “You were...?”</p><p>It is so profoundly satisfying to see the gears slowly turn in England’s dull head. Savouring the moment, France silently observes the way his eyes dart and how his tense muscles begin to relax. He opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water. If he dares to call France a liar after all that, he may just get a back-handed smack. </p><p>“Do you need me to say it again?” France quietly hums.</p><p>England holds tense eye contact for one last rebellious second. Then, finally quelled, he drops his gaze to the floor, grumbling under his breath.</p><p>France’s heart sings with fulfillment. How amazing, how incredible. Success without a single fist thrown? Honestly, he deserves a standing ovation. This is a moment he will remember fondly for months to come. It’s highly unlikely he will get any sort of apology out of England, but that is fine. The sweet taste of triumph is its own delightful reward. Vindicated, France allows a contented smile to curl across his face.</p><p>Cautiously stepping forward, the forgotten waiter clears his throat.</p><p>“I-I’m sorry to interrupt,” he stutters. “But if no one is going to pay for this, I should really get going.” In the awkward pause, England swallows. Seeming to think, he glances between the waiter, the bottle, and France.</p><p>Shaking his head, he eventually mutters, “Just forget it, then. I don’t really need it.” The attendant quickly gives them a slight bow and immediately takes off at a sprint. He hurriedly retreats, disappearing around a corner and out of sight.</p><p>Alone at last.</p><p>Folding his arms across his chest, England puts on his stoic façade, but he is not fooling anyone. France can tell he’s feeling insecure. Maybe even guilty. And so, brimming with confidence, France decides to be a bit daring.</p><p>“Well?” he clips with a sassy tilt of his head.</p><p>“Well,<em> what?” </em> England huffs.</p><p>“Am I going to stand in this hall overnight or are you going to invite me in?”</p><p>A delightful pink hue creeps over England’s ears. His Adam’s apple bobs wonderfully as he swallows. He’s gorgeous like this. All conflicting emotions and prudish pretence. Behaving as though they have never been intimate, or...<em> shared an amorous congress </em>before. Cracking that defensive Victorian wall and watching it exquisitely fall apart is one of France’s favourite pastimes.</p><p>England shuffles his feet and barely above a whisper, he says, “You may come in... If you’d like.” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* This chapter’s title is actually taken from a line said by Obi-Wan in ‘Star Wars: A New Hope’. The full line goes like this: “Who’s the more foolish? The fool or the fool who follows him?”<br/>* An estaminet is another word for a restaurant-bar in Belgium. It can also sometimes mean a café.<br/>* England gets drunk to escape his problems. For this story, I want to remove that option and see what happens. When he can’t run away any more, what will he do?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Honestly Dishonest</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Finally, mon Dieu,” France dramatically sighs. He brings that distracting cardamom scent with him as he strides into the room. Taking out a hook from the closet, he nags nonchalantly, “I crossed half the city in search of your dishevelled form, only for you to treat me as a traitor? I will never understand why you are always so intent on wounding me.”</p><p>In a single swift motion, he removes his grey coat and gingerly hangs it up in the little alcove. “You know, with all of the patience I have, I deserve to be called a saint! Anyone else would have left you by now.”</p><p>The admonition pricks England like a thorn. “You’re about as saintly as an imp,” England grumbles.</p><p>“How tragic!” France laments, ignoring him. “I did not get to finish my pinot noir! I’ve done my people a horrible disservice by wasting good wine.”</p><p>England bites back the potent urge to quarrel with an exasperated sigh. After causing a few disasters, he unfortunately has no leg to stand on. He did a bang-up job, scampering away from his date without even thinking to send a text. Then when France came looking for him, England threw out wild accusations like they were hand grenades. So much for being a gentleman.</p><p>Hold on, did he think of it as a date? That wasn’t a date. Of course not! France and England don’t go out on<em> dates. </em>They just happen to get drinks together. Frequently. But it’s always in a professional manner! It’s entirely normal for a pair of nations with a shared history to socialize outside of work hours. And, on occasion, find a quiet hotel room. For things that are not professional manners.</p><p>When the mood strikes.</p><p>England shakes off those<em> distracting </em>memories. Absently, he realizes that he’s been ignoring France, who for some reason, is still delivering his monologue. “...And why could you not pay that waiter using your credit card, hmm? Have you gone broke? I suppose I should be thankful, though. It is a rare gift to have you partially sober. You are not as cute when you are drunk.”</p><p>Heat rises to England’s ears. It seems he picked the worst moment to start paying attention. France adds, “And also, you are far less pleasant when you accuse me of crimes I did not commit.”</p><p>“Thank you, I get it,” England finally retorts. “Can you please knock it off?”</p><p>“You broke my heart, Angleterre.” France pouts, placing both hands over his chest. “You did not trust me.”</p><p>“How could I have known?” England dismisses. “You’ve pulled stunts like that in the past.” Maybe the<em> distant </em>past, but even so. The point still stands.</p><p>France tosses his golden hair and smirks. “Not even an apology? Quelle surprise.”</p><p>Narrowing his eyes, England scrutinizes his companion. France is poised. One hand on his hip, head tilted up. Haughtily staring down his nose at England, as if daring him to pick a fight. But after everything they’ve done tonight, this melodrama is too exaggerated. And England sees right through it.</p><p>“Sod off,” England mutters. “You’re not upset.”</p><p>“Oh, I am not?” <br/>
 <br/>
“No. If you were, you wouldn’t have asked to come in.”</p><p>“Be grateful that I did, cher. Otherwise, you would be spending the rest of the night alone.”</p><p>“Exactly how I like it.”</p><p>“Ah, oui,” France sneers. “You prefer it so much that you let me in.<em> You liar.”  </em>Flustered and done with his nonsense, England brazenly approaches him.</p><p>Getting right up in France’s smug, attractive face, he hisses: “Ever since we ran into each other back at the Europa building, you’ve been at my heels like a lost pup. First on the walk back, then at the bar, and now here. Anything you’d care to explain?”</p><p>France’s confident smirk cracks for only a moment. Then, with a practiced ease, he shrugs.</p><p>“Well, you did not turn me down. Not even once.”</p><p>“I...” England falters. “I told you off on our walk.”</p><p>“No, Angleterre. When you do not want me around, you are always<em> very </em>clear about it. Aggressively so.” France’s voice is low. His grin vanishes and he leans in, all leathery aromas and captivating presence. His blue eyes are piercing, focusing on a secret hidden in England’s soul. “If, as you claim, you wish to be left alone tonight, then you need only say it.”</p><p>Heart pounding, England repels his challenge. “Say what?” </p><p>“Tell me to leave,” France whispers.</p><p>Throat cramping, the words won’t come to England. He should say it and damn, he does try. But the silent tension settles in to stay, as thick as butter and as dark as chocolate.</p><p>Why the hell is he so bothered by this? It’s not like the two of them haven’t been here before. Sharing a dim hotel room after a night out drinking - it’s practically expected by now. Even on the rare nights when England is completely sober, they will find themselves back here. Saying nothing romantic. Stumbling blindly through the darkness. Tied up in each other's embrace.</p><p>It’s just... them.</p><p>For well over a century, it’s been their irrational way. Vapid and empty of any meaning beyond some ancient carnal hunger and faraway memory. And England is happy to leave it at just that. It’s safer and it’s easier than whatever France is alluding to. They’re close -<em> dangerously </em>close to something frightening, something that cannot be named.</p><p>Finally, England asks quietly, “...Do you want to leave?” Then, the only sound in the air is the soft ticking of his wristwatch.</p><p>France says nothing, but doesn’t need to. His sapphire eyes are lit with fiery intensity, and if England wasn’t so tightly wound up, he’d be squirming under that gaze. At this range, France fills his vision. Dark eyelashes and rich hair; a golden beard lining his appealing jawline.</p><p>England’s dry lips prickle and he makes the terrible mistake of wetting them with his tongue. France’s eyes snap to his mouth, briefly, and that’s all it takes to send a tremor up England’s spine. “What are you staring at?” he murmurs, hating how uncertain his own voice sounds.</p><p>“I was just thinking,” France muses smoothly, “you would be very attractive if you did not look like that.”</p><p>“Well,” England stammers. He scrambles for some flippant insult to toss out. Anything will do. “Your hair is ridiculous.”</p><p>Now that was just pathetic.</p><p>Carnal shadow falls over France’s expression, conjuring the image of a tiger eyeing its prey. He drifts just a hair’s breadth closer, sweet lavender and pepper scents whirling around him, so bewitching and tempting. England swallows. He’s completely done for. “And...” Fingertips itching with want, heart thundering in his ears, England growls. “And your cologne is<em> infuriating.”</em></p><p>France’s pupils dilate, giving only a half-second warning. And suddenly, hands fly to England’s face, grabbing him roughly and crashing their lips together. Throwing his whole body into the bruising kiss, France arches and bears down on England, who stumbles backwards, dizzy and helpless. He feels his back slam into a wall, sending a shock through his core.</p><p>He can hardly breathe and France isn’t letting up; threading fingers through England’s hair and exhaling against his skin. England’s trembling hands skate over France's soft sweater, dying to just fist the expensive fabric and pull the idiot closer. He’s had enough of their tennis games, but... can he really let his guard down? Maybe they aren’t close to anything at all and he’s just dreaming up another delusion. Nothing is different about tonight. Right?</p><p>Then France bites his lip,<em> hard, </em> and England realizes he doesn’t care to stop. Chucking the damned feelings in the bin, he lets it all go. And it’s the best idea he’s had all fucking day.</p><p>England shoves his tongue in France’s sinful mouth, earning a muffled squeak. He explores, curls his tongue around familiar teeth and tastes velvety red wine. He wraps his arms tight around France’s torso, locks him there, and then he<em> does </em>grasp that plush sweater, twisting it and feeling the hard muscles underneath. England doesn’t stop until his lungs are screaming and he breaks the kiss, gasping for air.</p><p>France is breathless, wearing a satisfied smile and a rosy, pink blush. “So desperate,” he teases. “Has it really been such a long time?” </p><p>“Five years is long enough,” England admits, panting.</p><p>“Oh?” France inquires, raising a single, perfectly trimmed eyebrow. “You have been counting?”</p><p>“No, I- ...shut up.”</p><p>France hums and nips at England’s throat. Then he snakes a devilish hand behind England and gropes him through his trousers. Jolting, England yelps far too soon and wholly embarrassed, he scowls. “Y-you... Perverted... Knob polisher.” </p><p>“Mmm, do not give me ideas,” France purrs, and England can feel him smirking against his skin. On second thought, maybe they won’t have sex. Maybe the night will end with England shoving a baguette up France’s arse instead.</p><p>But England’s anger melts away as they tug at each other, biting and kissing in a whirlwind of passion. Time loses all meaning and they drive forward, stumbling onto the bed. England bounces when he hits the downy duvet, fervent, lightheaded, and greedy. He knows it’s far easier for him to indulge his lust than it is to speak his honest feelings.</p><p>Rolling over top of England, France wickedly assaults his jugular and starts deftly undoing his buttons. And England doesn’t give enough of a shit to protest or put up a pretend fuss. Right now, he just<em> needs </em>this: the one singular vice that always obliterates his anxiety and crippling loneliness.</p><p>“Come on then,” he encourages, nibbling at France’s ear. “I haven’t got all night.”</p><p>Startled, France stalls, holding a button in place for just a moment. Then he releases it, instead smoothing his hands along England’s chest and planting tame kisses on his collarbone. England fidgets and drags his fingernails harshly along France’s back. He twists, licking and biting every patch of skin that he can reach. But it does nothing. As though sapped of energy, France only returns a few half-hearted pecks.</p><p>“What the bloody hell are you<em> doing?”  </em>England hisses. “Why are you slowing down?” France sighs against his neck, pulls back, and takes away that comforting body weight. He hovers, wearing a look of concern that England rarely ever sees.</p><p>“Angleterre, there is something I need to ask you,” France says quietly.</p><p>“My consent? You have it.” Grumbling, England drags him back down and urgently kisses the crook of his jaw.</p><p>France chuckles, but there’s no joy in the sound. “I am honoured, but it is not that.”</p><p><em> “What, </em>then?” Because this is bizarre and alarming. By now, France should be all over him - slipping off their clothes and sinking into the mattress. Instead, he’s solemnly searching England’s face for some sort of answer. And England is apprehensively waiting for the question to be spoken out loud, so they can get back to more pressing matters.</p><p>Moving off England to sit on the bed, France begins, gentle and serious, “You said you do not have all night. And....” He drifts off, seeming to second-guess himself, and it’s a behaviour England hasn’t seen in half a century. “Years ago, when all of this was first being decided,” France continues. “If you had been allowed to vote, what would you have chosen? Would you have chosen to Leave... or Remain?”</p><p>Immediately, the warmth leaves England's body, killing his arousal and dragging out the wretched misery he’s tried to conceal all night. He sits up and gapes openly at France for daring to bring up this topic.</p><p>“Are you daft?” he asks. His voice sounds dead and foreign to his own ears. “You’re asking me this... now?” This isn’t right. This isn’t how things are meant to go.</p><p>“Oui.”</p><p>England really wishes they weren’t in his hotel room, because there’s no place left for him to run from France’s penetrating eyes. All he can do is bitterly turn away as his last escape route is stolen from him. Why would France do this? Why now, when England was so close to grasping his only enduring lifeline?</p><p>“You... France, you can’t just....”</p><p><em>“Please.”</em>  The word strikes his heart like a spear, because France <em>never </em>talks to him like this. Reflexively, he wants to lash out, bark harsh obscenities and kick the frog out of his room. But his fingers are locked in place, bunched up in France’s fleece sweater, and it’s the only thing keeping him anchored to reality. England’s mind is petrified stone, stuck fast, refusing to think or rescue him from this turmoil.</p><p>He barely manages to speak. “I’m not about to....”</p><p>“Angleterre,” France pleads. “I need to know. Please.”</p><p>France is absolutely wrong. He doesn’t need to know. Why on earth would he need to know the personal thoughts of someone he doesn’t care for? England looks back at France, immediately regretting it, because it’s a bittersweet expression that he hasn’t seen since World War fucking Two. Weary. Tranquil.<em> Faithful. </em>Like when the sunlight peaks through dreary rain clouds with the fragile hope that everything will be alright.</p><p>“Stop looking at me like that,” England rasps. His heart is twisting into knots, his mouth is dry, and his thin voice is threatening to crack. He hates this. Hates how France completely ruins him, time and time again. “You’re such a bastard. Bloody, stupid frog... I....”</p><p>With a trembling sigh, England’s house of straw collapses. “I... I don’t know.”  </p><p>France brushes England’s hair aside and kisses his forehead in a way that’s so tender and terrifying.</p><p>“You do,” he whispers. “You can tell me.”</p><p>If the bed were made of guilt, it would be deep enough to swallow England whole. Because France doesn’t get it yet. England takes a breath and tries to steady his wavering voice.</p><p>“No, France I... I mean,<em> I don't know.” </em> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* Knob polisher is slang for someone who’s very good at giving oral.<br/>* Random thought: When I write FrUK or UKFr, I like to imagine a tennis match in my head. England tosses out a quip and France slings it right back. Their back-and-forth is entertaining when they can keep up with each other.<br/>* “Five years is long enough.” I chose this number intentionally. Because it puts them in 2015, before Brexit even existed. That was the last time they were intimate.</p><p>Hey there!<br/>Thank you so much for reading this little story I've put together. After much thought, I've decided to take a second look at my outline for this fic. There are a few things that I'd like to change regarding upcoming chapters and some tweaks I want to make to previous chapters. I really want to make this story enjoyable. And right now, I'm not confident that what I have planned is a good reflection of my writing skills. So, it may be a while before the next update... but rest assured, I'm still working hard to bring you a story you'll adore. Thanks for sticking with me. If you like what you've read so far, then please let me know with kudos. They always brighten my day.</p>
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